


Outcasts

by JazzB



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Explicit Language, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, School, Sherlock Needs A Hug, Substance Abuse, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-04-06 23:30:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4240809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JazzB/pseuds/JazzB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's a freak, almost friendless and bullied to the point that he hides himself away from his peers. John's the new boy, and his 'scholarship kid' status has him shunned by new classmates before they even get to know him. </p><p>Outcasts cling to other outcasts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You're Never Gonna Fit in Much, Kid

**_"The boys and girls in the clique,  
The awful names that they stick,  
You're never gonna fit in much, kid." _ **

**_\- Teenagers, My Chemical Romance_ **

* * *

 

 

She's just broken up with her boyfriend, Sherlock observes. 

Her skirt is rucked up even shorter than it usually is, her blouse buttoned (or, rather, unbuttoned) to show even more cleavage. She's wearing sparkly lip gloss, which has several stray hairs caught in it, and her nails have been recently done. She's put on a few inches around the waist in the past week. Comfort eating, no doubt. On top of all that, she's leaning over the table in what Sherlock supposes is intended to be a sexy way as she's talking to Philip Anderson, the damn idiot. He's positively  _lapping_ up the attention, his eyes fixated on her abundant chest. Every so often they flicker up to her face and he fakes a smile, pretending he's actually listening. All in all, it's a sickening display and Sherlock's almost outraged that they've dared to drag it into his safe space. He doesn't even wrench his eyes away when Anderson leaves with a wink and a waggle of fingers and a promise to  _see you later._ As if she feels his eyes burning on her, the girl turns around.   


"Take a picture, freak. It'll last longer," she snarls. 

"Charming as ever, Amelia," Sherlock quips, lightly. "Judging from the way you were practically just throwing yourself at Philip, I'm assuming Robert finally saw sense? I must congratulate him. I never thought he'd open his eyes." 

"And what," she takes a step towards him. "Is that supposed to mean?" 

"It's not  _supposed_ to mean anything," Sherlock picks up his Chemistry notes, reads them over like he's bored of the conversation already, which he is. "It means what it means. Robert may be an idiot, but he's rather a decent idiot and it's a shame he ended up with somebody who'll exploit his decency for her own personal gain and use him for sex whilst simultaneously fucking anything else with a pulse." 

"Are you implying I'm a slut?" she sounds shocked, as if the suggestion is simply ludicrous. Sherlock shrugs. 

"I'm not  _implying_ anything," he says. "I'm stating it outright." 

"At least I can  _get_ a man," she smirks. "Faggot." 

Sherlock pauses for the briefest of moments there - so subtle an idiot like her would never notice it. He mustn't let her see his reaction, mustn't let her know how that word stings. 

"I'm sure if I wanted to 'get a man' I would be perfectly capable, thank you, Amelia," he swaps out the chemistry notes for the biology ones. "As it is, I'm perfectly content with my own company." 

"Good job," she scoffs. "You don't even have any  _friends._ Why do you even still  _go_ here, freak? Nobody wants you here any more, not after-" 

"Ms Heath, is there an issue?" the voice of Mr Lestrade, the school librarian, startles the dyed-redhead into turning around. She smiles in that simpering, sickening way that she does to all conventionally attractive men. 

"Oh no, Mr L, not at all. I was just um... asking Sherlock for some help with my homework, that's all," she says. Lestrade cocks an eyebrow in disbelief. 

"Not what I heard. Why don't you go to your German class and leave Mr Holmes here to his reading, eh?" he says, stepping aside and gesturing towards to door. 

"Auf weidersein," Sherlock mutters under his breath, as she turns to stomp out of the room. 

 Lestrade is a tall, slim-built man who is handsome in a sweet, non-threatening kind of way. Despite being - at Sherlock's guess - in his late-forties and completely grey, he's still got a charmingly boyish smile and a friendly-if-firm demeanour that is reminiscent of a fun uncle instead of a member of staff at one of the most highly-regarded secondary schools in England. He and Sherlock are on good terms - a happy coincidence, considering Sherlock spends the majority of his school day tucked away in the back corner of the library. Sometimes even when he's supposed to be in lessons. Lestrade doesn't mind, doesn't tell on him because Sherlock's doing classwork in the library anyway, just away from the insufferable hoard of his classmates. None of his teachers protest his absence too much because he comes nearly top in almost every subject he takes. 

"Are you alright?" Lestrade asks, and Sherlock gives a half-hearted, one-shouldered shrug. 

"Nothing I haven't hear a thousand times before," he says, trying his damndest not to sigh. "I'm fine." 

A firm, comforting hand comes down on Sherlock's shoulder and squeezes gently. 

"I'll make you a cup of tea," he says, and Sherlock scoffs. That's Lestrade-speak for  _I know you're depressed and are too proud to admit it so I'll let you drown your sorrows in Earl Grey instead._

"I said I'm  _fine!"_ Sherlock calls at his retreating back, but the librarian just keeps walking towards his office. Sherlock sighs deeply, but elects not to protest to much. After all, he really  _could_ do with a cup of tea. 

* * *

"Sorry, can I just steal this chair?" a male voice cuts through Sherlock's studies, startles him a little. 

He looks up to see a relatively short, narrow-hipped blond boy with dark eyes and a thick porridge-coloured jumper with the sleeves rolled well up smiling at him. He's new - Sherlock hasn't seen him milling the corridors with the throngs of arseholes he's forced to spend six hours a day, five days a week with. Besides which, if he wasn't new, he wouldn't speak to Sherlock. Nobody his age who's been at the school for any length of time does. Sherlock notes the way that the boy stretches his shoulder out and winces slightly as he waits for a response. 

"Sporting injury," he observes, and the boy's face - quite a pretty face, if Sherlock pays it any attention - crinkles in confusion. 

"Beg pardon?" he says. 

"Your shoulder," Sherlock waves a hand towards it. "It's a sporting injury, isn't it? Let's see - there's a tan up to your elbows but not on your upper arms, suggests you wear some kind of shirt with relatively short sleeves. Good physique, though it's starting to deplete. You're out of practise. An old injury, happened a few months ago. You've got lean legs, so it's something that involved a lot of running around... more upper body strength than is required for football. Rugby, then. You're small, narrow hips, broader chest. Means you're lighter, can move faster than most... ideal build for a half. I'm guessing you did yourself a mischief in the scrum?" 

"Uh... yeah," the blond blinks. "That's... that's right, actually. Who told you all that?" 

"Nobody told me," Sherlock shrugs dismissively "I saw it. Sorry, was there something you wanted?" 

"Well I came for the chair but that was..." the boy looks startled and confused and.. impressed. "How d'you do that?" 

"I just told you, I saw it," Sherlock's annoyed - he so hates repeating himself. "Feel free to take the chair." 

"That was bloody  _amazing,_ " the blond praises, not budging, and Sherlock is startled by the positivity of the comment. 

"Not what people usually say," he mutters. 

"Oh?" the boy looks taken aback. "What do they usually say?" 

"Piss off," Sherlock shrugs one shoulder, and the boy laughs. It's a nice sound. Warm and pleasant, like bells. 

"I'm John. John Watson," the blond states. 

"Sherlock Holmes," the ghost of grin threatens to make its way onto Sherlock's face. 

"I'll remember that name," John smiles, and its not unkind. "I'll see you around, Sherlock." 

"See you around, John," he mutters it under his breath, as the blond starts to walk away. 

Finally. Someone at this school who's  _not_ boring. 

 


	2. Always Been My Own Man

_**"Don't have too many friends,** _   
_**Never felt at home,**_   
_**Always been my own man,** _   
_**Pretty much alone."** _

_**_\- Love of the Loveless, Eel_ s** _

* * *

 

"Sherlock?" John spots the curly-haired boy amongst the crowd in the corridor. If he hears John calling to him, he hides it well, so the blond weaves his way to Sherlock's side, puts a hand on his elbow. "Hi." 

"Hello, John," Sherlock replies, apparently startled by the contact. 

"Listen, I don't want to be a pain or anything but you're the only person who's name I know so far. Could I ask a favour?" John says. "I'm a bit lost. Chemistry Six, know where it is?" 

"Certainly," Sherlock nods. "My next class is there." And then he starts walking, quite abruptly. He doesn't tell John to follow him, but he does it anyway. 

"Cheers, mate, you're a star," John beams as he catches up with him, and Sherlock starts again. Almost as if he didn't realise the little blond was still at his side. He clears his throat, and John can't tell that he's embarrassed about having been shocked or flustered by the sudden compliment. 

"Quite right," he replies, and makes what is obviously an attempt at a smile back. 

_This guy is strange,_ John observes. Evidently something of a loner - he's been by himself every time John's seen him, although that is only twice. He hopes he's not intruding. John can't tell  _why_ he spends so much time alone. He's obviously very intelligent, and quick off the mark to go with it if what he said in the library is anything to judge by. And, John can't help noticing, he's devastatingly good looking. All alabaster-pale skin and unkempt black curls and silvery blue eyes. And holy crap those  _cheekbones._ They look like they could cut through diamonds. 

_Damn it, John, you're staring at him._

He catches himself, wrenches his eyes away from that striking profile and forces them dead ahead. He clears his throat. There's an awkward, heavy silence between the two of them. 

"So..." he drags the one syllable out. "Looks like we have Chemistry together, then?" 

"Looks like it," Sherlock agrees. 

A group of fourth-years pass by them, a gaggle of girls. They giggle as they get near, all of them nudging each other and stealing glances at the boy at his side and for a second John thinks they're swooning. Then one calls out to him 

"Freak!" 

They burst into peals of laughter, like it's the funniest thing any of them have ever heard. Sherlock bristles but keeps walking. John feels his nose crinkle in confusion. 

"Were... were they talking to you?" he asks. 

"Possibly," Sherlock shrugs, like it's no big deal. The cool demeanour is back, but John saw the flash in his eyes. 

"That's so fucking rude," he comments and Sherlock just shrugs again. He stops at the end of a corridor. 

"Here we are. Chemistry Six. See you," and he turns smartly on his heel to walk away. 

"Wait!" John calls, and Sherlock does pause for a second. "Didn't you say you have this class too?" 

"I did," Sherlock replies. "Have fun." 

This time, he doesn't stop when John asks him too. 

* * *

 

Sherlock finds comfort in the library. 

It's more home to him than his house is. He's been an avid reader since he can remember, and surrounding himself with books is one of few technically legal ways he can find comfort. He'll read anything. Fiction. Non-fiction. Classics. Modern. Horror, thriller, sci-fi, fantasy, true crime, action, even the odd romance. Those, he reads because they remind him of his mum. For Dad, he reads books about sports, a subject that he has no interest in whatsoever. Sometimes, when he's down and can't get hold of any good stuff, he'll thumb his way through some tedious romance novel or the autobiography of some asinine football player until he can almost hear Mum or Dad reading it to him and he feels a little bit better again. 

Certainly, Sherlock finds little comfort from his elder brother, Mycroft. They've never gotten along, even as children. Sherlock was wild, adventurous, curious, always digging holes in the garden and climbing trees and usually ending up with some sort of injury. Mycroft was more reserved, more quiet. They remained much the same into their older years. Mycroft became a cold, distant man, where Sherlock became - and he's the first to admit it - a contrary arsehole. There's no common ground between them, no shared interests. And no affection. They shake hands on odd occasion but Sherlock can only remember twice in his entire life that Mycroft has hugged him. The first was at their parents' funeral. The second... Sherlock doesn't like to think about, is trying desperately to delete it from his mind palace. 

Sherlock's mind is drawn to John. He's... not interesting, but he isn't boring either. He didn't call Sherlock a wanker for making deductions, nor did he punch him in the face. He said it was ' _bloody amazing'._ He seemed genuinely angry that the girl who passed them in the corridor called Sherlock  _'freak'._ Like Sherlock hasn't been called it, and worse, a thousand times over. He sounded... almost disappointed that Sherlock wasn't going to come into the class with him. 

Sherlock Holmes does not form emotional attachments. He has to remind himself of that. It's unnecessary, getting involved in people. Distracts the mind from things that are more important. Besides which, when you're Sherlock, it'll probably end up badly for you. He certainly learned _that_ the hard way. 

He doesn't even notice Lestrade standing there until the mug clinks down in front of him.

"Looked like you need it," the librarian clicks his tongue affectionately. "Have you been sleeping, Sherlock?"

"No less than usual," Sherlock takes a sip of the tea. It burns his tongue, but he doesn't flinch.

"So not enough, then," Lestrade says. "Listen, mate, I know I'm just your school librarian and all but if you need to talk..."

"I don't need counselling," Sherlock spits it more abruptly than he means too.

"Right okay," Lestrade holds his hands up. Sherlock skulks in here enough that Lestrade knows not to push him when he doesn't want to talk. "But if you ever decide you _do_ need help with something... well you know where my desk is, don't you?" 

Sherlock ignores him, lays back on the black leather couch he's claimed as his and arches his fingers under his nose, closing his eyes. It's a sign for Lestrade to leave Sherlock to his thoughts, which he does after around half a minute.

John seems to like Sherlock. It's only been one day, but he already seems like... like he wants to be friends. And Sherlock Holmes doesn't have friends, never has.

Trust one pretty little blond boy to try and change that.  


	3. Some Kind of Beautiful Stranger

_**"Haven't we met?** _

_**You're some kind of beautiful stranger,** _

**_You could be good for me,_ **

**_I've had the taste for danger."_ **

**_Beautiful Stranger, Madonna._ **

* * *

When John goes up to the library at lunchtime, he finds Sherlock is in there again, in the chair where he'd been at break. 

He has his legs hanging over one of the black leather arms of the chair, fingers bridged under his chin, eyes closed. John notices that he's really very good looking in an odd, pale skin, thin build, cheekbones-you-could-cut-yourself-on kind of way. For a second John thinks he's asleep and considers tiptoeing by. But, so suddenly it's almost startling, he opens his eyes and sees John standing not six-and-a-half-feet away. 

"Hello John," he says, and it's almost dismissive. "If you've come for a chair again, feel free." 

"Uh... I was actually gonna ask if it was okay to sit with you," John admits. He's always been a relatively easygoing, amicable guy but he seems to be struggling to make friends at this school. Nobody's been outright mean or rude to him, but there's a certain condescending tone from the vast majority of people he's spoken to. They start out friendly enough, sure. But a couple of questions in and it's  _"oh so your dad's a_ plumber? _H_ _ow lovely_ _..."_ and  _"you got a_ scholarship!  _How wonderful for you!"._ Nothing overtly cruel, but John gets a distinct feeling that these people don't want him there, that he doesn't belong amongst them. But he's not going to let it bother him. He worked his arse off to pass that scholarship exam, was the only person to get in on a scholarship this year. He deserves to be here, and as long as he knows it, it doesn't matter if the rest do. 

The only person who John hasn't found to be a total patronising arsehole is Sherlock. John gets the feeling that he's rejected by his peers as well. If not for the way that girl called him  _'freak'_ in the corridor, for the way some of the kids in his Chemistry class whispered and snickered when his name was called on the register and there was no answer. Perhaps they'll have some common ground, John thinks. Plus, even though they've only briefly met twice, John finds himself wanting to be around Sherlock - the way he deduced all that stuff about John just by looking this morning was _brilliant._ He wants to get to know this guy more, to see exactly how he  _does_ that.  _  
_

"Go ahead," Sherlock waves at the three empty seats across the table from him, indicating John should take his pick. He settles in the centre one. 

"How come you didn't come to class?" the blond blurts out, because it's been bugging him for over an hour now. 

"It's boring," Sherlock shrugs. 

"Why did you take Chemistry if it bores you?" John asks, confused. 

"Oh, John.  _Chemistry_ doesn't bore me," Sherlock says. "Chemistry is  _fascinating._ It's the class that's boring. The teacher is tedious, the pupils are worse and the course content is positively  _remedial._ " 

"I thought it was okay," John shifts uncomfortably. 

"That's because you're an idiot," Sherlock states, and John's shocked at the bluntness of it. Sherlock sighs at his expression. "Don't be offended, most people are." 

"I'm starting to understand the whole 'piss off' thing, you know," John says, but he's grinning. "How did you  _do_ that thing this morning?" 

"I told you, I saw it. Do try to keep up," Sherlock tuts. 

"Where did you learn it?" John's eager to know, and Sherlock blinks, looking confused. 

"I didn't," he says. 

"You mean you've always been able to do it?" the thought is astounding to John. 

"For as long as I can remember," Sherlock says. "It really is as simple as observing, noticing things about people. Mrs Hammond, for example," Sherlock points to a short, older woman with greying red hair who's talking to a student across the way. "She's suffering some kind of stress - her nail polish is chipped, look. She must've been picking at it, very common nervous habit. Expensive skirt, she's trying to look nice. But it's got cat hairs all over it, she's either been petting her cat a lot or hasn't been bothering to the laundry regularly. She's got a full face of make up on, and yet nothing on her eyes - crying a lot, she doesn't want to make mascara run. Keeps playing with her wedding ring, twisting it around. I'd guess her husband has cheated recently and they're trying to fix it." 

"That's..." John says. "That's..." 

"I think 'amazing' was the word you used at break time," Sherlock grins and, despite the over-confidence and cocksure nature of it, John can't help grinning with him. 

"Bet you do your girlfriend's head in with all that, eh?" he says. Sherlock's grin falters. 

"Girlfriends aren't my area," he says, delicately. 

"Oh. Boyfriend, then?" John asks, and Sherlock shakes his head no. "Because you know it's okay if..." 

"I know it's okay," Sherlock leans back on the chair again. He looks so comfortable, so content, that he could be lounging an armchair at home. 

"You spend a lot of time here?" it's a question, rather than a statement. 

"Home away from home," Sherlock confirms. " _Much_ more interesting than listening to teachers drone on and on." 

"I think I agree with you," John chuckles, and the two boys smile at each other across a table of books. 

* * *

 

"Hello love," John's mum practically pounces on him the second he walks through the door. "How was your first day? Did you find your way around okay? Were the lessons very hard? Were your teachers nice? What about the other pupils?" 

"Mum," John cuts her off, laughing. "Can I have a second to breathe, first?" 

"Sorry, love," she coos. "I'm just so happy for you! Imagine,  _my_ boy, off at private school! Clever thing. Come on I'll make you a cuppa and we'll talk about it, eh?" 

Mum brews up a pot of tea, even breaks out a couple of the white chocolate wafer biscuits she hides away for special occasions. Then she launches on her torrent of questions again, and John tries to answer them as fast as she's asking. Overall, a good first day. It was easier to get around than he thought, though he got a bit lost on the way to Chemistry. Teachers were, on the whole, firm but fair. The lessons were challenging, but nothing that John can't cope with. 

"That's my clever lad," Mum ruffles his hair. "And what about the other kids? Did you make any friends?" 

"Got quite chatty with one bloke," he says, tactfully. Mum would have a fit of hysterics if she knew people had been unpleasant to her John. 

"And?" she presses. "Does he have a name?" 

"Sherlock," John states. 

"Odd name, that. Still, you hear way worse from  _some_ of these posh parent types don't you?" she laughs. "What's he like, then? This Sherlock?" 

"He seems alright," John shrugs. "Bit strange, but really clever. Sharp-witted, you know? And friendly enough.  He took me to my classroom when I got lost."  _He also called me an idiot, but I don't think it was an insult. If idiot can be not an insult. Doesn't matter anyway, he's gorgeous enough to get away with it._

"I'm glad for you, baby," Mum presses a kiss to John's forehead. "And I'm happy you've made such a nice friend so quickly." 

_Yeah. Yeah, I think I am too._


	4. Watch Your Back 'Cause No One Will

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about not updating for a while. Been helping my friend move house and just been busy busy busy.

_**"Refuse to feel anything at all,** _

_**Refuse to slip, refuse to fall,** _

_**Can't be weak, can't stand still,** _

_**Watch your back 'cause no one will."** _

_**Simon, Lifehouse.** _

* * *

 

Sherlock isn't surprised to find the house empty when he gets home. 

Mycroft didn't mention anything about working late, or going anywhere. But when does he? Sherlock's grown accustomed to being alone in the house, often for several nights at a time. Honestly, he prefers it that way. Why Mycroft is around there are rules, when he's alone he has free reign. Not that he sticks to Mycroft's rules anyway, but when he's by himself, at least he doesn't get read the riot act for putting his feet up on the couch. And he isn't subjected to lectures about his school attendance or punctuality or any of that  _boring_ type of bullshit. Instead, Sherlock can abandon his homework, enjoy his own company and marathon reruns of The Jeremy Kyle Show. It's his secret guilty pleasure. It's fun to deduce the results of the lie detector or the DNA test before they're revealed, and it's nice to see people who aren't him being yelled at for a change. If Mycroft knew, Sherlock would never hear the end of it. 

There's a downside to being in the house by himself, though. He's left alone with his thoughts and, though most bad things are instantly deleted from the mind palace, some of them worm their way through when he has a rare and brief lapse in concentration. Within the past sixth months, Sherlock's become hyper-aware of how ostracised he is by his peers. It wouldn't usually bother him. He's never had friends, not really. Molly tags around with him sometimes, and sometimes he's grateful for her company. She's clever enough that she can hold at least a half-decent conversation, and she has a no-bullshit type of view on life, which Sherlock admires even if he doesn't admit it. But they're just at-school-acquaintances. They're not  _friends._ Sherlock's only seen her outside of school once. He couldn't even guess at where she lives. He realised a long, long time ago that people don't tend to like him. They think he's weird - a freak - and he's too blunt without meaning to be. He allowed himself to think, foolish though it was, that someone might actually tolerate him at the beginning of last year. Twelve months down the line and he realises that that isn't the case at all. Curses himself for getting so deep into it. 

The bang of the front door cracks through his thoughts, and he's almost grateful for it. He hears Mycroft hang up his jacket, and the living room door creaks open. 

"Feet off the sofa, Sherlock, how many times have I told you?" Mycroft tuts. 

"Not enough, apparently," Sherlock doesn't budge. 

"How was school?" Mycroft plants himself in his armchair, unfolds the evening paper. Sherlock scoffs. 

"Like you care," he mutters. 

"I'm only taking an interest in you," Mycroft raises an eyebrow without looking away from his newspaper. 

"School was fine," Sherlock lies. 

"Did you go to all your lessons today?" Mycroft's eyes still don't leave the paper. 

"The ones worth my time,"  _that's_ not a lie, at least. 

"For heaven's sake, Sherlock," that makes Mycroft put the paper down. "You'll get into trouble if you keep this up. I'm paying good money for you to go that school, the least you can do is turn up to your lessons." 

"It was  _your_ decision to send me there, not mine," Sherlock points out. "Besides which, if I was going to get into trouble for it, I'm sure it would've happened a long time before now." 

"Sherlock, I know you struggle to make friends..." Mycroft begins, and Sherlock gets to his feet. Every so often, Mycroft tries to step up to the  _I'm your big brother and I really do care about you_ role, and it makes Sherlock beyond uncomfortable. 

"I'm going for a cigarette," Sherlock starts out of the room. 

"Sherlock..." Mycroft begins. 

Sherlock doesn't hear the rest of the sentence. 

* * *

 

Mycroft is gone again when Sherlock manages to rouse himself for breakfast. 

Mrs Hudson, the housekeeper, greets him in the kitchen with a mug of hot, over-sweetened coffee and honey on toast. Sherlock smiles, thanks her and actually means it. Since their parents died, Mrs H has really done her best to take Sherlock under her wing. She enjoys taking care of him, and she's not afraid to tell Mycroft off when she thinks he's being too sharp. Sherlock's grateful that they have her. 

"What's on the agenda for today, then?" she asks, watching Sherlock shrug on his jacket. 

"Lord knows," he states, and she tuts but she's smiling. 

"How you do so well on exams is beyond me," she says. "You're such a bright boy. Well, you'd best be off. Don't want you being late. I'll see you later, dear." 

"See you later," Sherlock calls it over his shoulder as he heads towards the driveway. 

Mycroft gave him an allowance to buy a car when he passed his test, offered him several suggestions of shiny, sleek, foreign things that go unnecessarily fast. Much like the car Mycroft himself drives. Sherlock supposes he was supposed to be keeping up appearances, helping his brother maintain his reputation. Which is why he instead opted for a secondhand Vauxhall estate which was probably blue once upon a time, but has been faded by time and sun to a murky greyish colour. There are tears in the upholstery which Sherlock has repaired with duct tape and concealed with an old fraying rug he found at a car boot sale years ago. Mycroft hates the thing and, for that reason, Sherlock loves it all the more. 

He pulls into school just as the morning bell is ringing. He retrieves his bag from the boot and heads straight for the library without even bothering to check which lesson he's supposed to be at. 

He can hear voices in there as soon as he enters. Strange. There's never anybody here this early in the morning. He rounds a corner to see Lestrade, deep in conversation with John. They both look up. 

"Hi, Sherlock," Lestrade says. 

"Alright, mate?" John adds.

It was so casual, he probably didn't even think about it but Sherlock can't help realising that nobody, aside from Lestrade, has called him  _'mate'_ for years. 


	5. A Friend In Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating in 23650 years, been busy AF hope y'all are still interested in reading this.

_**"You got troubles and I got 'em too,** _

**_There isn't anything I wouldn't do for you,_ **

**_We stick together, we can see this through,_ **

**_'Cause you've got a friend in me."_ **

**_\- You've Got a Friend In Me, Randy Newman_ **

* * *

 

Within four weeks, they've developed a routine. 

Sherlock arrives at his usual early hour, and John rolls up a while later. They spend the half-hour or so before lessons start and John actually goes to them chatting in the library, often accompanied by Lestrade and a cup of tea and, on occasion, a couple of ginger snaps from Lestrade's secret stash. John will bob up again at breaktime and find Sherlock again, often in exactly the position he was left in that morning. Sherlock will talk - about something he's learned or some piece of gossip he's deduced about their peers - and John will listen. Only at lunchtime can John occasionally convince Sherlock to leave his hidey-hole and come down to the canteen. John's beginning to see just why Sherlock is so slender - he has to be pestered into buying food and even then he doesn't eat much of it. John worried at first (and still does, a little) that the taller boy was suffering some kind of eating disorder, though he's been assured several times that he just 'forgets' to eat. John walks home, so he can collect his sister Harry en route, and so they part ways at the foot of the library staircase at the end of the day. 

It changes the day it's pissing with rain and John forgot to pick up a jacket on his way out of the house. He's not twenty metres out of the gate when a clapped out, rusty old estate car pulls up next to him, and the window rolls down to reveal Sherlock in the drivers seat. 

"Did you forget your coat?" he looks like he's fighting the urge to laugh, so John flips him off.

"Very funny, dickhead," he replies.

"Get in," Sherlock gestures at the passenger seat, and John hesitates.

"I've to pick up my sister from Cedarstreet on the way..." he says, and Sherlock makes a motion with his hand like he's brushing it aside.

"We can make a pitstop. You're getting wet. Get in," he says, and this time John does so immediately. He has a small fight with the old, stiff seatbelt and then takes a second to look around the car. It's so not-Sherlock that it's almost alarming - he himself is always so put together, so  _fancy_ looking. This car looks like it's had a number of previous owners who didn't treat it so well. There are tears in the seats, mended by duct-tape, and a fraying, faded rainbow-patchwork blanket on the back seat. There are several of those tree-shaped air fresheners hanging from the rear-view mirror and, most amusing to John, a hula dancer in a grass skirt swaying her hips on the dashboard. 

"Uh... nice car," John remarks, and Sherlock chuckles.

"Hideous, isn't it?" he says. "Mycroft gave me free reign to buy whatever I wanted, expected me to go for some Italian monstrosity like he drives. It pissed him off _endlessly_ when I brought this home." 

"You enjoy pissing your brother off, don't you?" John observes, and Sherlock nods.

"It's wonderful fun," he says. His driving, John is noticing, is _bad._ He abuses the accelerator and brakes too hard and John is hanging on for dear life by the time they reach Cedarstreet High School, muttering a string of curses under his breath. Sherlock laughs at him. 

"Sorry. I don't usually have passengers," he says it like it should be shocking and John scowls at him.

"Just try not to kill us before we get home, right?" he says. "Jesus. How did you pass your test?"

"Examiner wasn't paying attention. His eldest son had just fell off the wagon with alcoholism again and he was at the end of his tether. Didn't really notice much and passed me because I stuck to the speed limit," Sherlock shrugs.

"He told you all that?" John's forehead crinkles in confusion.

"Don't be an idiot, John. I saw it," Sherlock tuts, as if it should've been obvious.

"Of course you did. Because you're bloody brilliant," John says, and Sherlock agrees. John's about to call him a pompous twat, when a confused looking Harry approaches the car. John's nervous all of a sudden - what if she hates Sherlock and it makes things awkward? But he needn't be. The second she gets in the back seat, he starts talking to her as if he was just a normal person, a regular old friend of John's, and they get along spectacularly.

Harry dashes inside as soon as Sherlock pulls the car up outside, itching to get started on some History project she's been set. John lingers a while longer.

"Thanks," he says, after a long moment of silence.

"It's no problem," Sherlock shrugs. Then "You and your sister get along well?"

"Yeah," John nods. "Always have. Mum works funny shifts and since Dad's not around any more... well, we spend a lot of time alone together." Sherlock doesn't say anything, and it takes John a second to realise how that might have sounded. "And... I mean, we're really close in age too, she's only two years younger than me. Not even that, actually, a year and a bit, so up until now we've always been at the same school at the same time and..."

"Shut up, you idiot," Sherlock says and it doesn't sound cruel or pissed off. "You haven't offended me. The reason Mycroft and I don't get on is because he's so serious and miserable, and I'm an arsehole so I go out of my way to wind him up. It's through my choosing."

He doesn't sound so sure about it, but John doesn't comment because he's learned that Sherlock is stubborn as a mule and there's no point in arguing with him. He glances out of the window towards the house.

"I should go, I suppose. Get Harry fed. I'll see you in the morning," he says. 

"See you in the morning," Sherlock smiles at him as he climbs out of the car, and gives him one last wave before he drives off.

***

True to their routine, the pair meet in the library again the following morning.

When Sherlock goes to grab another book from a shelf, a shadow is cast over John's Chemistry notes. He looks up to see a guy he vaguely knows from Biology class. He's conventionally handsome, all smooth olive skin and big brown eyes and springy black hair and strong jaw bone. He's generally got a gaggle of girls not far behind him and is friends with some of the guys John is on the rugby team with. His name is V-something, some typical posh person name that John can't quite recall. Vincent or Virgil or something.

"Sorry to bother you," he says - he's got one of those smooth, deep voices that is perfect for radio. "Is this seat taken?"

He has both of his hands on the back of the chair beside John, ready to drag it away.

"No, you can have it," John tells him, just as Sherlock rounds the edge of the bookshelf. He stops dead in his tracks and V-whatever looks sheepish all of a sudden, a slight blush tinging his cheeks. After a couple of seconds he swallows deeply.

"Um. Hi, Sherlock," he says and, although reminiscent of a child who's just been severely told off, it's the least unpleasant way in which John's heard anyone speak to Sherlock since he came here. 

"Victor," Sherlock states. There's a line of tension in his jaw and John's alarmed to see that he looks  _angry._

"I uh... I just came for a chair," Victor explains, and Sherlock nods once. 

"I see you have one. Off you go then," he says, sharply. 

"Right," Victor nods, picks up the chair, and half-runs back to his own table. 

Sherlock sits down, perhaps a little heavier than he usually would, and starts turning the pages of the book slightly more roughly than normal.  He's a little  _too_ rough with one, and a small tear appears in the middle. 

"Fuck. John, hand me your tape," he holds out his hand without looking up, and John passes the roll over, feeling mightily confused at the exchange he just witnessed. 

"What was that all about?" he asks, when Sherlock's done mending the book. 

"You saw. It ripped," Sherlock still won't look at John, who tuts. 

"That's not what I meant and you know it isn't," he says. "I meant that little to-and-fro with Mr. Tall-Dark-And-Handsome there." 

"Victor Trevor is, to put it bluntly, an almighty cunt and I'd rather spend as little time in his presence as possible," it mostly sounds completely matter-of-fact, except for the place in the middle where Sherlock's voice hitches. 

"Is he one of the dickheads who picks on you?" John asks, confused because every time he's seen Victor he seems to be extremely pleasant and kind. Sherlock scoffs. 

"You wouldn't understand so don't try," he states. Evidently he wants to leave it there, but John reaches out, puts a hand on top of his. 

"Listen, mate. Whatever he's done, just forget about it and forget about him," he says. "He's not worth it. You're bloody brilliant, you are. A lot better than any of this lot, and you shouldn't take any of their shit because you're too good for them." 

He expects a cock-sure agreement or something about being too emotional. But instead, he gets an ear-to-ear grin and a genuine-sounding  _thanks._

"Any time, mate," he shrugs. "Any time." 


	6. Somethin' Stupid

_**"And then I'd go and spoil it all,** _  
_**By saying somethin' stupid,** _  
_**Like 'I love you'."** _  
_**-Somethin' Stupid, Frank Sinatra.** _

* * *

 

_Six months ago:_

The school half-terms are magic as far as Sherlock is concerned. For one thing, he doesn't have to go to the cesspool and mingle with the people he would rather not mingle with. For another, Mycroft is generally away for them so he doesn't even have to put up with his insufferable brother. 

For a third, he and Victor don't have to hide. 

School is torture, especially because they take so many of the same classes. The fact that he can look at Vic all he likes but he can't touch him at all sends Sherlock nuts. Now, when they have the full week off and Sherlock's home alone they're free to spend all day every day together, so that's what they do and it's bliss. They started seeing each other by accident, when Sherlock was helping him with Chemistry in the library and one thing led to another. It was casual at first, a cheeky snog and a grope in the library when nobody can see them, a sneaky blowjob in Sherlock's car while he's dropping Vic off at home after school. Nothing serious. Friends-with-benefits, or so they call it. It's escalated from there to the closest damn thing to a full-blown relationship Sherlock's ever seen. But it all has to be done in secret. Neither one is out yet and, though Sherlock could care less if everyone at school knows, the prospect of people finding out his sexuality can and has driven Victor to tears on more than one occasion. His dad wouldn't get it, his mates wouldn't get it, he'd become an outcast. So it's all done on the hush-hush and, though it bothers Sherlock and they've had a few arguments about it, they're just happy to be with each other. They live for times like this, when they can be open and affectionate, sprawled across Sherlock's bed in a tangle of arms and legs and sweat-damp sheets. 

"I wanna stay here forever," Victor comments ducking his head to kiss Sherlock's curls, passing over their shared post-shag cigarette. Sherlock snuggles closer.

"Me too," he agrees, taking a long drag and blowing the smoke out in rings because he knows Victor finds it impressive. 

"I'm going to miss this when school starts up again," Vic says, with a sad sigh. Sherlock swallows, passes the fag back over. 

"Me too," he repeats. Vic's thumb strokes his arm and they're quiet for a while. 

"Don't be sad about it, Shez," Vic says, as if the pause never happened. "Just give it a bit, we can be together properly. When we go to Uni, get out of here. Away from my dad and my mates." 

"I don't know why you're friends with them," Sherlock scoffs. 

"They're alright, really, Phil and Seb," Vic sounds uneasy. "It's just... well they've both got a weird sense of humour, that's all. I know they take it too far with you sometimes, but it's 'cause you bite back and that's what they want. You should ignore them, babe." 

"Well you're hardly in a rush to defend me," Sherlock mutters it, but Vic hears and he squeezes Sherlock's shoulders apologetically. 

"I'm sorry, babe," he says. "I would, you know I would. But..." 

"But there's no way to do it without them suspecting something's happening," Sherlock says curtly. "I know." 

"I'm sorry, Shez," Sherlock feels the warm weight of full lips on top of his head. "I've told them they're being unnecessarily cruel, that they should back off a bit. I got a bit of stick for it, but I think they listened. I hate seeing you upset." 

"It doesn't upset me," Sherlock says flatly, and Victor tilts his head up with a hand under his chin. 

"You're a dirty liar, Sherlock Holmes," he mock-scolds, and that's one of the things about him that's so brilliant. Nobody else can read Sherlock like he can, nobody else  _gets_ Sherlock like he does. They just  _click_ and it's wonderful. Sherlock doesn't even mind the daft nickname  _Shez._ If anybody else used it, they'd be promptly told to fuck off. On Victor's lips it sounds perfect. And oh, what lips they are. Full, perfectly shaped like cupid's bow, concealing two rows of straight, dazzling white teeth and curving upwards into the most gorgeous of smiles almost every time he's in Sherlock's presence. Nobody else smiles like that because of Sherlock. Nobody else listens to him playing the violin and applauds afterwards like it's the best thing they've ever heard. Nobody else will dance with him in private - sometimes romantic and slow, sometimes daft and crazy. Nobody else kisses his curls and calls him their  _pretty little genius._

In short, Victor Trevor is one in a million and Sherlock Holmes is absolutely, 100%, head-over-heels crazy for him. 

Somehow they're kissing again, and Vic has ended up on top of Sherlock with one hand cradling his neck and the other carding through his curls. Sherlock's arms wind around Vic, one at his waist, the other at his shoulders so he can scratch the back of Vic's neck in the way he knows makes his boyfriend melt. It's a lifetime of bliss before they break apart for breath. 

"I love you." 

Sherlock doesn't even realise he's said it out loud until Vic pulls away properly and looks at him with a combination of fear and alarm. Before Sherlock can say anything else, Victor gets off the bed and starts putting his clothes back on. 

"Just remembered. I have a ton of work to do for Psychology that I haven't even started yet," he says, not looking Sherlock in the eyes. "I'd best get home and finish it." 

"Don't go," Sherlock pleads, kicking the sheets off and putting his hand on Victor's arm. "I'm sorry, Vic." 

"I have to get it done, Shez," Victor doesn't throw him off, but he does gently prise his arm away. "Mr N will go batty if I have another outstanding homework." 

"I'll do it for you," Sherlock offers. "Please stay. I'm sorry." 

"No I... I have to go. I'll see you at school on Monday, yeah?" he starts to walk out of the room and Sherlock follows, pulling a pair of jeans on as he does so. 

"Vic, listen to me. Please," he begs. "Don't go, darling, please. I didn't mean it. Well, I did  _mean_ it but I didn't mean to  _say_ it. Come on, come back to bed. Don't go. We can just... just pretend I didn't say it. Vic, please!"  _  
_

They're at the foot of the stairs now, and Victor turns to face him for the first time. 

"We can't just pretend you didn't say something like that, Shez," he says, and he sounds pained. 

"I'm sorry," is the only response Sherlock can give. There's a pause. "You don't... you don't feel the same, then?" 

"I didn't say that," Vic sighs. "I just... I've gotta go, Shez. Clear my head. I'll see you on Monday, honey, alright?" 

"Alright," Sherlock says, though it's anything but. 

Victor doesn't even kiss him goodbye. 

***

Two nights later, and Sherlock's out walking by himself. 

He does it a lot, when he needs to clear his head. Walks around the park about half a mile from his house and smokes a lot. It's probably not safe, but he can run fast and fight well if it comes to it, so he's not too afraid. Besides, he's never need to run from or fight with anybody so statistically, he can safely assume he's going to be okay. It's not like it's a bad neighbourhood or anything. He's not worried. 

Until a very drunk Victor stumbles into the path in front of him. 

"Vic? Are you alright?" he asks. 

"No," is the sharp reply. Vic's not usually short with Sherlock, but he figures it's the drink talking and tuts. 

"You idiot. What have you been drinking? How've you gotten in this state?" he says, concerned. "Come on - I'll put you to bed." 

He goes to put his hand on Victor's arm, only to be punched in the jaw so hard he stumbles back a couple of steps. 

"Keep your hands away from me," Vic snarls. "Fag." 

"What? I don't under-" Sherlock doesn't even get his full sentence out before Philip Anderson and Sebastian Wilkes emerge from the bushes that Victor came from. They've all been drinking, clearly, but Victor's by far the worst off. 

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" he asks, sarcastic as ever. 

"Listen, Sherly," Phil steps up, and they're nose to nose. "If you're a queer that's all fine and dandy, but you might want to leave Vic  _the fuck_ alone, okay? He's not a fairy like you." 

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Sherlock says, though he has a feeling he does. 

_Please, God, let me be wrong._

"He's talking about you trying to get into Victor's trousers when he'd already made it obvious he doesn't want you," Sebastian chimes in. "Poof." 

_Yep. I was bang on._

Sherlock's eyes meet Victor's for a second, before Vic swivels his away. He has two options. He can tell them the truth and - if they believe him - lose Vic his best mates and likely out him to the world, but ultimately same himself from getting his head kicked in. Or he can roll with the lie, fight the pair of them as best he can and let Vic's dirty little secret stay a secret. 

 He can have seven bells knocked out of him, or Vic can get hurt because of him. 

"It was all a misunderstanding," he finally wrenches his eyes away from Vic and looks back at Phil. "I misread some signals, is all." 

"Pretty big misunderstanding that ends with you trying to get someone blatantly not interested into your bed," Phil scoffs. "Fucking pervert." 

"Like I said. Misread signals," Sherlock lies. "Picked up on some wrong vibes, clearly. Won't happen again." 

"Damn right it won't," Seb agrees. 

"We're going to make sure it doesn't," Phil says, and Sherlock admits he has a surge of fear when Phil's hands ball into fists. He wears two pretty sizeable rings on each hand, and Sherlock's heard about the damage he so enjoys inflicting with them. He can fight if he needs to, but this is three on one and he doubts anybody would fancy those odds. He takes a step back. 

"Look, I've apologised. Can we forgive and forget?" he says, and Phil laughs. 

"What's the matter, Sherly? Scared?" he says. "You should be." 

Sherlock backs up another step, straight into Vic. He turns around, and for a fleeting second there's a flash of something apologetic across Victor's face. Then, Sherlock's nose explodes with pain, and there's something warm and wet and sticky pouring down the lower half of his face. Vic's eyes flash, daring - no  _begging -_ Sherlock to hit him back. But he can't do it, can't bring himself to hurt Vic. So he clenches his fists and doesn't break eye contact until Phil smacks him in the back of the head. He almost yells out, but he bites his lip hard. He's not giving them that kind of satisfaction. 

Sure enough, he doesn't yell or scream once. They take their time - fifteen minutes by Sherlock's count. He's really fighting the urge to cry and, with a sadistic laugh, Seb delivers one final kick to his ribcage and calls him a pathetic baby before all three of them run away. Vic's the last one to go, hesitating for just a moment as if he's going to say something, try to make what he just helped do better. But it's only a moment, and then he's gone, feet pounding the pavement in a half-run, half-drunken-stagger behind his friends. And Sherlock is alone. 

Sherlock tries to stand after a couple of minutes. The first time his legs can't take it and he crumples to his hands and knees. He heaves a couple of laboured breaths, his ribs burning with pain each time. On his second try, with the aid of a nearby bench, he manages to get back to his feet. His legs scream in protest with every step, but he manages to stagger home and up the stairs to the bathroom. Seeing himself in the full length mirror on the back of the door is alarming and sickening. His face is streaked with rivulets of dried blood and his jeans and shirt are torn up and dirty. He can already see some bruises forming, and there are several places he's going to have scars from Phil's rings. His whole body screams with pain, and he strips down and sits in the bathtub while it fills. It's soothing, the warm water washing over him as it runs out of the tap, and he stays there for a long time before he actually starts to clean himself off. After he climbs out of the bath, he sits on the edge of the tub and has a good cry. Not because of the pain, although it's bad. But because of the thought that keeps replaying in his head, over and over...

_Vic did this to you._

He doesn't go straight to bed, though he desperately wants to. Instead, he pulls on a pair of sweatpants and an old hooded sweater and heads back out of the house. Usually he'd walk, but his legs won't carry him all that way so he thumbs down a taxi and has it drop him two streets over from his destination - he's almost embarrassed for the driver to know where he's going. He just got seven shades of shit knocked through him to keep Vic's dirty little secret, it only makes sense that he indulge his own. By the time he reaches the house he's looking for, he's gritting his teeth from the pain and hanging onto the door frame to stay upright. He manages to knock somehow and, after a little shouting and banging from the other side, it swings open and Sherlock forces a smile.

"Jim," he forces out. "Just the man I'm looking for."

"Jesus, Sherlock," Jim Moriarty looks him up and down. "You'd better come in." 

Sherlock gladly staggers inside the dingy little house, collapses as soon as he's in the front room. It's got a threadbare sofa and a worn old armchair and is thankfully devoid of junkies passed out on the floor for tonight. Jim stands in the doorway, regards him for a couple of seconds before he walks over, cradles Sherlock's face, turns it this way and that to examine it. When Sherlock winces, he tuts.

"Someone was really trying to ruin that pretty face of yours," he mutters. "You'll be wanting something for the pain, then?"

"Yeah," Sherlock nods. "And... and something to make me forget. For a bit."

"I've got just the thing. Be back in a second, honey," Jim winks at him and leaves the room. Sherlock hears him rummaging around somewhere else in the house. He returns a couple of minutes of later with a small baggy of white powder. He dangles it temptingly between his thumb and forefinger. "Got this just yesterday. Thought of you, actually. Peruvian. About as pure as it gets. This is good shit, honey." 

"I'll take it," Sherlock leans forwards and winces as he jars his ribs. Jim laughs. 

"Easy there, boy," he tuts. "It ain't cheap, honey. Not even for you." 

"I don't care," Sherlock shakes his head. "I've got money, Jim. Please, I need it." 

"Who did this to you, anyway?" Jim starts cutting the lines while Sherlock fishes a wad of notes out of his wallet. 

"Ex-boyfriend," Sherlock says, because it doesn't matter if Jim knows this crap. "And two of his mates." 

"Yikes," Jim winces. "Why?" 

"I did something stupid," Sherlock waves a dismissive hand. "It's done with now. I'd just like to not think about it for a bit." 

"This should do the trick just fine," Jim grins. 

He isn't wrong. 

* * *

 

_Present day:_

Sherlock stands in front of the full length mirror, running his fingers over the scars Phil's rings left that night. The worst ones are on his chest and his back, where for some reason Anderson had been intent on doing the worst damage. The scars aren't big,, but they run deep. Running his fingers over them, he can feel that they're raised and even now, they're red and angry looking. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and pulls out his phone. It's picked up within a couple of rings. 

"Jim? It's Sherlock. Get some of the good stuff ready, I'm on my way over." 

 


	7. Ain't It Funny? Rumours Fly

**_"I can read you like a magazine,_ **

**_Ain't it funny? Rumours fly,_ **

**_And I know you've heard about me."_ **

**_\- Blank Space, Taylor Swift._ **

* * *

The rugby team is one of the places John finally feels like he's making friends aside from Sherlock. 

They were sceptical of him at first - quite apparently some of the boys have been on the team for years and there's something of a clique mentality. John was something new and they were unused to that. But after they saw how well he plays, they welcomed him into their group with open arms. The only one he's unsure of is Phil Anderson, the team captain. He's a little _too_ loud, a little  _too_ boorish, a little _too_ cocksure. He's an okay player - nothing brilliant - but he seems to think he's Jonny Wilkinson. He has a level of arrogance that matches Sherlock's, but on Anderson it comes off as cruel. He talks down to everyone, even his little tag-along Seb Wilkes, who doesn't really say a lot but jumps whenever Anderson tells him too like a loyal little flying monkey. Anderson's yet to say anything to John outside of _"good game" ,_ so John is surprised when he's approached on the way out of the locker rooms on Saturday practise.

"You played well today, Watson," Phil tells him. "I'm glad you joined the team. You're a real asset to us." 

"Thanks," John replies, with a smile. "It's nice to just get back into it, you know? I've been out of practise for a bit." 

"Mm," Phil clearly wasn't listening to him. "Listen, John. You've been spending a lot of time around Sherlock Holmes, haven't you?" 

"Yeah," John replies. "I like him, he's..." he searches for a word, because  _nice_ sure as hell doesn't describe Sherlock. "He's cool." 

"I like you, John, you seem like a decent bloke," Phil says. "And because I like you, I'm gonna give you a bit of advice. Stay well away from Sherlock Holmes." 

"Why?" John's nose wrinkles in confusion. He gets that not many people like Sherlock, but he assumes that's because he's a pompous, arrogant prick who goes out of his way to make people not like him. What difference does it make to Anderson if one person in the hundreds at school wants to spend time with Sherlock? 

"He's a fag," Anderson spits and John is momentarily shocked. 

"I have no problem with gay people," John informs Phil curtly. Phil holds up his hands defensively. 

"Hey, hey. Neither do I. Live and let live," he says. "Until they're some sick predatory pervert.  _That's_ when I have a problem." 

"Sherlock's not-" John begins, but Phil laughs. 

"Trust me mate. Sherlock is," he says. "You know my mate Vic, don't you? Victor Trevor? Sciencey bloke, always wearing that leather jacket? He was like you once. Tried to be nice to old Sherly, tried to be his friend. Thought it was 'unfair' that people were 'unnecessarily cruel' to him. And you know what happened? Sherly tried to get in his pants, even after he'd made it obvious he wasn't interested. He's a sicko, John, trust me. You're better off away from him." 

And with that, Anderson turns on his heel and walks away. 

* * *

 

Somewhere along the line, Sherlock has ended up with a lap-full of Jim, anchoring him in place with arms around his waist, their lips locked together. They also appear to have both lost their shirts at some point, and Jim's nails up and down the length of his back are doing absolutely  _sinful_ things to Sherlock. 

This is something that's been a semi-regular occurrence since Sherlock and Vic ended. Jim's never hidden the fact that he's got something of a soft spot for Sherlock; always letting him know about the best stuff first, always playing with Sherlock's hair, telling him how pretty he is, making dodgy proposals on more than one occasion. Sherlock's not entirely sure what they  _are._ He's not certain how comfortable he is calling Jim his boyfriend, but as far as he's aware the two of them are exclusive to the point where Jim has turned down several other propositions, telling people that he's 'spoken for'. Nothing changed much between them, except now when Sherlock's a little short of cash or when they've done maybe a little too much of something together or heck, when they feel like it, they find themselves between Jim's bedsheets. And now, when Sherlock spends the night, it's not on the living room floor or the kitchen table with the other strung-out junkies. It's wherever Jim is, an arm holding him sometimes uncomfortably close to the Irishman's body. 

"Something's bothering you," Jim says it against Sherlock's lips, pulling away just slightly. He's clever - almost as clever as Sherlock is - and that's maybe one of the reasons they get on so well. It's not often either one finds an intellectual match. 

"I'm fine," Sherlock lies, and Jim tuts. 

"Don't you go telling me fibs, Sherlock Holmes," he says. 

"It's nothing," Sherlock insists. Jim's fingers find the scars on his sides, and he sighs. 

"Is it this?" he asks, and Sherlock nods once. 

"Sixth months ago to the day," he lets out a shaky breath, and Jim tuts, cradles his chin. 

"Oh, honey," he coos. "How about we break out some of the really good stuff, mm? Take your mind off it?" 

"I don't know if I can afford-" Sherlock starts, but Jim shushes him. 

"We'll arrange some kind of payment, okay?" he says, with a wink. 

"Okay," Sherlock agrees, because anything is better than that same old thought that just won't go away. 

_Vic did this to you._


	8. You've Got Something

_**"I've got a secret, I cannot say,** _

_**Blame all the movement to give it away,** _

_**You've got something I understand,** _

_**Hold it tightly, caught on command."** _

_**\- The Lost Art of Keeping A Secret, Queens of the Stone Age.** _

* * *

 

John can't believe it. 

John  _won't_ believe it. He's known Sherlock for only a little over a month, and yet the two of them have become fast friends. He doesn't really  _know_ that much about the taller boy, but he's pretty confident that he wouldn't do what Anderson accused him of. And yet there was notable tension between him and Victor on Friday, so much that you could cut the air with a knife. Victor was... nervous. Timid, almost. And Sherlock? Well he just looked  _angry._ Maybe there's more to him that John thinks. 

"You've been staring at me for fifteen minutes and you haven't said a word," Sherlock pipes up, not even looking up from his notes. "Clearly something is bothering you. What is it?" 

"What happened with you and that Victor bloke?" John asks, and Sherlock sighs, his shoulders slumping just a little. 

"I told you. You wouldn't understand, so don't try," he says. 

"It's just... well, I was talking to Phil Anderson after rugby practise on Saturday," John says. Sherlock is very still for a second, very quiet. Then he shrugs. 

"You know what happened then," he says, his voice just a fraction quieter and a fraction softer and a fraction sadder than usual. 

"That's all true?" John says, and Sherlock puts his notes down, wrings his hands together. 

"I thought he was more interested in me than he was," he says, limply. "I misread signals. It was a misunderstanding." 

"I don't believe it," John shakes his head. "You don't misread signals - and even if you did, you'd never admit to it." 

"Are you still stuck on that same question? Give it to me," Sherlock picks up John's worksheet and scribbles the answer to the question on it. "Really John, it isn't that hard. Do you want me to go over it with you?" 

"Uh... yeah, if you don't mind," he says. Clearly it's not something Sherlock is comfortable talking about. But John saw the flash of  _something_ across Sherlock's face. It was only a split second, but he looked sad and scared and angry and vulnerable all at once. John doesn't want to push him - not yet anyway - but at the same time he's dying to know what went on that's caused Sherlock to have so much disdain for a bloke he was obviously keen on once upon a time. Sherlock himself is talking at speed about taxonomic classification, obviously desperate to get the conversation as far as humanly possible away from Victor Trevor. 

***

For the first time ever, John arrives before Sherlock the next morning. 

It's cause for some concern - generally, Sherlock arrives at an ungodly hour, before the school is even technically open. But the librarian, Mr-Lestrade-but-call-me-Greg is always there at an even more ridiculous hour, coming in at stupid-o'clock to make sure Sherlock has somewhere to go when he arrives at the crack of dawn. He doesn't even look up from his computer screen when John walks in and he says "Morning Sherlock." 

"Wrong one, I'm afraid," John replies, as cheery as one can be at eight o'clock on a Tuesday morning. Call-me-Greg looks at him then, his nose crinkled in concern. 

"He's not with you?" he says, and John shakes his head. 

"Thought he'd be here already," he says.

"No," Greg says. John shrugs. 

"Maybe he overslept," he suggests and, when Greg looks unsure he adds "Or maybe that death-trap car of his has finally given up the ghost." 

"Maybe," the librarian says, slowly. He's worried, John can tell, though he's not entirely sure why. Surely it's no great tragedy if someone is a little later than usual, even when that someone is Sherlock bloody Holmes. 

After a brief chat, John makes his way to their usual corner of the library, where he pulls out his phone and opens his messages. 

_I got here 1st. U still alive?_

There's about five minutes between John sending the text and his phone pinging with a reply. 

**_Still alive. Something came up. En route now. SH_ **

_Are you texting and driving?_

**_Maybe. SH_ **

_That's illegal, Sherlock._

**_Don't be boring, John. SH_ **

John's tempted to text back an indignant retort, but he doesn't want to further distract Sherlock from his driving. It's a few minutes before the door swings open and Sherlock sweeps in, in a swirl of blue scarf and grey coat. He seems perfectly fine at first, but when he gets closer John sees the way his hair is more than usually dishevelled and his eyes are framed by dark circles. He didn't sleep well last night, that much is obvious, and John frowns at him, concerned. 

"Good morning," he sounds cheerful enough, at least. 

"Are you okay?" John asks, and Sherlock smiles at him but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.. 

"Wonderful," he says. 

"You look..." John tries to put it tactfully. "Tired." 

"Mm," Sherlock nods. "Late night." 

"What were you doing?" John asks, and for a second Sherlock freezes. Then he shrugs.

"Reading," he says. "Got too into the book, lost track of the time." 

"Oh," John doesn't believe it, but he's learned already that there is exactly zero sense in starting an argument with Sherlock Holmes. No matter who is wrong and who is right, Sherlock is winning simply because he's so bloody  _stubborn._

He'll do his best to find out, though. 


	9. Don't Ask Me No Questions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does anyone still care about this? I had to move house and start uni, haven't updated in forever.

**_"So, don't ask me no questions,_ **  
**_And I won't tell you no lies."_ **  
**_Don't Ask Me No Questions, Lynyrd Skynyrd_ **

* * *

 Six weeks later, and John's still not sure what he believes about his new friend. 

Since Phil Anderson fed him the initial rumour that Saturday afternoon, more and more have trickled to him as he's become acquainted with more and more people. Some are fairly tame, almost kind in comparison to the rest. Sherlock just grabbed the wrong end of the stick, they say. Made a pass at Victor Trevor during a tutoring session - some kind of lewd, dodgy comment that wasn't well received. He got a bop in the nose for his efforts and Vic never spoke to him again. Others are more sickening; Victor made it apparent from the get-go that he wasn't interested, but Sherlock wouldn't hear of it. Wouldn't take no for an answer. Spoiled, selfish Sherlock Holmes was so used to getting what he wants that even when he couldn't, he took it anyway. Poor Vic was traumatised, skipped classes for a week because of it. Never pressed charges though; too scared of what might happen if he did. 

The latter, John is unwilling to accept. It's been almost three months, now, and he's positive Sherlock's not capable of...  _that._ He doesn't really seem to be sexually inclined either way; too wrapped up in books and his own ego to even think about being attracted to anybody else. John just can't imagine him so full of lust that he'd do something so very horrific. And yet, so many people  _do_ believe it. And they've known Sherlock for a hell of a lot longer than he has. Maybe he's a dark side that John is yet to see. 

Of course, he's tried to bring it up again with his friend, but Sherlock isn't having any of it. He either tells John to shut up, because he's trying to think, or ignores the question completely and starts an extensive rant about an entirely different topic. Clearly, there's something being hidden, something Sherlock doesn't want John to know. He's determined to get to the bottom of it, but already he's realised that Sherlock Holmes is a stubborn git, if nothing else. If he doesn't want to tell John something, he's not going to, so the blond will have to be sneaky. 

An opportunity arises on a Friday, when they follow their newly-developed routine of going to Sherlock's place to get a start on their weekend work. John's been invited to a party at the weekend, a guy from Chemistry that he's gotten quite pally with by the name of Mike Stamford. He's one of the very few people in the school who seems to take no issue with Sherlock Holmes. He refuses to get involved in any kind of gossip, saying that it's none of his business, but he has no personal reason to dislike the guy, which John respects. 

"Are you going to Mike Stamford's party tomorrow night?" he breaks the hour-long silence in which John has been doing his History essay, and Sherlock has been reading the obituaries for murders to get excited about. 

"No," is the short answer. 

"Why not? You're on the Facebook invite," John says. 

"I have plans," Sherlock shrugs. 

"Plans with who?" John is confused. Sherlock doesn't have any other friends at school, and he's not mentioned any outside. 

"A guy I know," Sherlock is being deliberately vague, John can tell. He doesn't press any further, for fear of frustration. After a pause, Sherlock continues. "Besides which, Victor Trevor will be there." 

"Oh, come on Sherlock," John sighs. "I know there's bad blood between the two of you, but he's hardly going to make a scene in the middle of a  _party."_

"You're right," Sherlock agrees, surprising John. "However I'm entirely unconcerned with whether or not he's going to cause a scene. I've told you already - the man is an almighty bastard and the less time I spend in his presence, the happier I'll be." 

"Why do you hate him so much?" John tries. Sherlock goes back to his newspaper, lifting it tactfully to hide his expression from John. "Sherlock, come on. You can't keep slagging the bloke off without telling me  _why._ What happened between you?" 

"I would've assumed you'd have heard by now," Sherlock's voice is flat, emotionless, gives nothing away. 

"I've heard a lot of things," John sighs. 

"Well, you're not a complete idiot," still in that monotone. "Use your better judgement and decide what to believe." 

"I'm not sure I believe any of it," John says. "I've not even heard your side." 

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Sherlock slams the paper down, startling John into shuffling a pace backwards. "This is getting so  _boring,_ John. Why you're so very concerned with what happened between Victor Trevor and I, I don't know. I was wrong about everything to do with the boy, and I learned the hard way that caring is  _not_ an advantage. Now for God's sake can we stop talking about it." 

The outburst has frightened John, who is unused to seeing his new friend so animated and emotional. After a second, Sherlock regains his composure and picks his paper up again without a word. There's an uncomfortable, unsettling silence that stretches between them, one John is wholly unaccustomed to.

* * *

John takes a cab to the party alone on Saturday. 

Armed with an eight-pack of Fosters and a brave smile, he ascends the steps to the front door. In all honesty, he'd partially hoped that Sherlock would come just so he didn't have to go in alone. But it's evident the taller boy is well and truly in a sulk with him - he's not even replied to any texts since yesterday. John makes a mental note to pick up a box of Earl Grey and a packet of dark chocolate digestives to tempt Sherlock out of his mood on Monday. 

As soon as he enters the house, he's engulfed by two strong, slightly sweaty arms and greeted with a familiar, grinning face. Mike Stamford is a talkative, slightly plump boy with a cracking sense of humour and not a bad word to say about anybody. He's one of a few people John is truly glad to have met; they got talking when seated next to each other in History, where they discovered they both had intentions to become doctors later in life. He's everybody's mate, and the party shows it; there's barely room to breathe in the lounge, lest you bump into the person next to you. 

"I'm so glad you could make it," Mike booms, over the music. A pause. "Are you by yourself?" 

"Sherlock had plans," is John's reply. Mike tuts, then shrugs. 

"Shame, that. It'd do him well to get out and talk to people, I think," he says. "Still, I wasn't holding my breath for him coming. He's hardly your social butterfly, is he? Can I get you a drink?" 

"Uh, yeah, please, I um..." John indicates the cans underneath his arm. Mike leads him through into the kitchen, where he's handed a glass with a flourish and left alone while Mike goes off to host. No sooner has he emptied the first can does someone tap him on the shoulder. He turns to see Molly Hooper, a mousey-haired, sweet-natured girl who he knows Sherlock sits beside when he bothers to turn up to his Biology classes. He's a sneaking suspicion that Molly's something of a crush on his friend, and her question only confirms that. 

"Did he come with you?" she says, and John shakes his head. 

"Had plans with a mate, apparently," he say. "You look nice." 

"Thank you," Molly pats her newly-coiffed hair, a small self-conscious smile finding it's way onto her face. But not before a flash of disappointment. Sherlock was right - John isn't a total idiot. She's clearly gotten herself all prettied up in hopes that she'd catch Sherlock's eye tonight. Still, she goes out of her way to make conversation with John, and the two are quite companionable for most of the evening. 

* * *

 Sherlock takes a cab to Jim's alone on Saturday. 

By the time he arrives, fat, cold drops of rain are starting to descend, and he curses himself for not bringing an umbrella. 

Jim grins at him when he comes to the door. 

"Wasn't expecting you so early," he remarks, stepping aside to let Sherlock in. Sherlock shrugs one shoulder. 

"Had a lot on my mind, wanted to  see you," he says, nonchalantly. 

"I'll get your mind cleared right up in no time," Jim winks. "What's bugging you?" 

"School shit," Sherlock waves a hand dismissively, because he doesn't want to explain it to Jim. 

He's trying his damnedest not to get emotionally attached to John. John is going to leave him, that's a given. He's already getting pally with Phil and Seb, already hearing all of the rumours about Vic. At this point, it's only a matter of time before he also decides that he wants nothing to do with Sherlock and he moves on to his other friends, just like everyone else does. Getting attached would be silly, it would only make the inevitable all the more painful. Still, Sherlock likes John. He's clever enough that they bounce off each other well, and he makes Sherlock laugh more than anyone has since Vic. It's been a while since Sherlock had any proper friends, and he's desperately trying to cling onto the friendship for as long as he can.

Jim has cut the lines on the glass surface of the coffee table and Sherlock finds himself more than usually eager to get on it. Jim watches him, amused.

"Damn, honey, you weren't joking," he chuckles. "Go easy, won't you. You've got all night to have fun."

"Are we gonna have fun?" Sherlock smiles, trying to be seductive. Truth be told, he couldn't care less about fooling around with Jim tonight. But he keeps thinking about how John has gone to this party, where Phil and Seb are. Where Vic is.

_Vic did this to you._

"I thought you'd never ask," Jim drops down beside Sherlock and they kiss. 

* * *

As luck would have it, John bumps into Victor Trevor at the party.

It's hot in the house, so John comes to cool off out in the back garden. It's quiet - the rainstorm that ended ten minutes ago had pushed everyone inside, and it doesn't look like many people have been brave enough to come back out yet. The only other person in Victor, sitting on a rusty old swingset and smoking. He smiles at John as soon as he steps out, waves him to sit on the next swing over.

"Hi," he says. "It's John, isn't it?" 

"It is," John affirms.

"Want a cig?" Victor offers, lighting another as soon as he stubs out his first.

"I don't smoke. Thanks for offering, though," John smiles at him.  Victor smiles back, blows smoke out in rings. John laughs. Without even thinking about who he's talking to he comments "Sherlock's really good at those." 

For a second, John is kicking himself - he thinks that Vic will be as touchy about the subject as Sherlock is. But to his surprise, Victor laughed. 

"He really is," he agrees. "Taught me how to do it, actually. Never quite got the hang of it as well as he seemed to." 

There's a long pause between them. Then Vic sighs heavily. 

"How is Sherlock?" he asks, and John shrugs. 

"He's okay," he says, though he doesn't really know for sure. Sherlock doesn't ever really show any emotions one way or the other and seems horribly embarrassed any time his stoic façade slips. The only time he's ever really gotten animated about anything, it's been about Victor. Usually, he wouldn't say anything, but the four lagers that he's sunk make John that bit braver. 

"He gets really pissed off with me any time I ask him about you," he says. Vic smiles humourlessly there. 

"He really fucking hates me, doesn't he?" he replies. 

"I don't know that I'd go that far," John shifts uncomfortably, and Victor actually laughs. 

"Oh no? What's he said about me, then?" he asks. John clears his throat awkwardly. 

"He mostly just calls you a cunt and says he wants to be nowhere near you, to be honest," John confesses. 

"Ouch," Vic winces. "Still, sounds about right. I probably deserve it." 

"What happened between the two of you?" John asks. Vic just sighs heavily. 

"I know the things people say, John. But Sherlock isn't a bad person," he says, instead of answering the question. "He really isn't. He's just a bit... mixed up. Not his fault, poor sod, he's had a rough time of it with his family life. He doesn't know how to do emotions, never has. I know he hides it well but he's so...  _vulnerable._ I see the way you two talk at school. You're good for him, you make him smile. Just promise me you won't let people turn you against him? He needs someone like you in his life." 

"I promise," John replies. 

Victor puts out his cigarette and they both go back inside. 


	10. I Hope That I Don't Fall In Love With You

_**"If you sit down with this old clown,** _

_**Take that frown and break it,** _

_**Before the evening's gone away,** _

_**I think that we could make it,** _

_**And I hope that I don't fall in love with you."** _

_**\- I Hope That I Don't Fall In Love With You, Tom Waits** _

* * *

 

It's still the middle of the night when Sherlock wakes up. 

He barely remembers getting to bed - just vague recollections of stumbling up the stairs and of Jim's hands and of feeling like he was gonna throw up but not actually doing it because getting out of bed was too much effort. Jim is still asleep, curled in that way he does, one arm resting across Sherlock's waist. He's a heavy sleeper, always has been, and he doesn't even stir when Sherlock gently eases out of his grip and redresses. He heads downstairs, slips out into the darkened back yard and lights up a cigarette. His phone screen tells him that he has several unread messages from John. 

_Mike gutted u couldn't come, sends his best_

_Molly also gutted, got her hair done just for u *wink wink*  lol_

_Update: parties r decidedly less fun when your best mate isn't with u lol_

_Shit mate i think u were right, everyone we know is a vapid arsehole lmao_

  _Are u okay Sherlock?_

_I know you want everyone to think you are, but it's alright if u aren't_

_U can talk to me about it if u r feeling down_

_I'll stop bugging u about Victor if u want. what happened doesn't matter. doesn't matter what people say either. no matter what u did or what he did, u r my mate and i'm not going anywhere. won't get rid of me that easily lol._

_I'm off to bed. Hope u had a good night with that dude u know. Missed u._

With a shaky hand, Sherlock wipes the dampness away from his cheeks and closes the message thread.  John really isn't making it easy to not get emotionally attached. With his silly  _caring_ and his stupid  _friendship_ and his damn  _gorgeousness,_ he's practically begging for Sherlock to fall for him. But God damn it all, he won't let that happen again. What's the point of falling in love when he himself is so damn unloveable? What's the point of falling in love when you're only gonna get hurt in the long run? 

But maybe John is different. 

That doesn't matter, Sherlock tells himself. Vic was different too. Vic was caring and friendly and gorgeous. Vic told him he could talk about it if he wasn't okay. Vic said he wasn't going anywhere. 

_Vic did this to you._

No, Sherlock decides. He isn't going to fall for John. Besides everything he's got Jim. Jim who is gorgeous and friendly and caring in his own way. Jim who can make the pain go away, rather than asking him to talk about it. Jim who's always up for a party, always up for a good time. So maybe Jim doesn't love him, and maybe he doesn't love Jim either. It's better that way, he tells himself. No stupid, pointless emotions to get in his way. With Jim, it's all cut and dry - they get high and they fuck and that's all it ever needs to be. He tells himself he doesn't miss pet names that aren't  _honey_ and he doesn't miss lazy mornings of cuddling with black coffee and cigarettes and he doesn't miss watching stupid sappy films that he really enjoys more than he lets on and he doesn't miss cutesy text messages about how nice he looked today. He doesn't miss having someone who cares, someone to care  _about._

"Caring isn't an advantage, Sherlock," he mutters it out loud to himself. Even as he's saying it, he's typing out a message to John. 

**Night was okay. Missed you too. SH**

He hears Jim's bedroom window creak open above him. 

"You coming back to bed, honey?" 

Sherlock stubs out his cigarette and goes back inside. 

 

 


	11. Just One Night, To Be With You, To Make it Right

_**"If I could have just one night, to be with you, to make it right,** _

_**To what we were, and what we are,** _

_**It's hidden in the scars."** _

_**\- Scars, Miley Cyrus** _

* * *

 

John finds Sherlock in his usual position in the library on Monday morning. At first, nothing really seems off. 

Then, John notices Sherlock's open collar, and more notably the bruises. 

"Fucking hell Sherlock, what happened to your neck?" he says, startled. 

"Nothing," Sherlock hurriedly starts to refasten the top couple of buttons but John takes hold of his wrists gently to stop him. He sucks in a breath through his teeth. 

"These are fingerprint bruises," he observes. "Did... did somebody  _choke_ you?" 

"For heaven's sake John, it's not what it looks like," Sherlock bats his hands away. John reluctantly steps back. 

"I don't see what the bloody hell else it could be," he says. Sherlock rolls his eyes. 

"Are you really going to make me spell it out for you?" he says, and when John just blinks at him in confusion he heaves an exasperated sigh. "Jim got a little bit too excited on Saturday night." 

"Who the hell is Jim?" John's nose crinkles. Sherlock's never mentioned a Jim to him before - and clearly he didn't intend to do it now. John can see him cursing himself in his head. After a couple of seconds, he clears his throat. 

"Jim's... he's my boyfriend," he says, and he's not entirely sure why. 

"Oh!" Everything finally clicks into place in John's brain, and he feels himself blushing deeply. He clears his throat. "I thought you said you didn't have a boyfriend?" 

"I didn't," Sherlock shrugs in a way that would be nonchalant if it wasn't so forced. "We're very... on and off." 

"Oh," John repeats. There's a long silence between them while he gives Sherlock a long up and down look. Things are ticking away in his head. Bruises on his neck from an on and off boyfriend who just 'got a little bit too excited'. He isn't stupid. People have kinks, and maybe this is theirs. But why would Jim be a secret. John bites his lip. 

"Has he ever... does he treat you okay?" he asks. Sherlock shrugs. 

"He treats me fine," he says. "Why would you ask?" 

"No reason," John replies. "Just curious." 

"Alright then," Sherlock drops his eyes back down to his book. 

It was a plan he came up with on the spot - and a sloppy plan at that. Pretending that Jim is his boyfriend might stop him falling any further for John. Might make John back off a little bit with the things that are almost flirting. Besides, it was easier than confessing that Jim is his dealer, and Sherlock was too coked out on Saturday to remember if he left the bruises behind on purpose or not. 

As for John, he's almost surprised at the pang of disappointment he feels in the bottom of his gut. Sure, Sherlock is gorgeous and intelligent and makes him laugh his arse off when he's in the right mood, but John doesn't  _fancy_ him. They're mates. Best mates. Fancying your best mate only makes things awkward. John  _doesn't_ fancy Sherlock. 

Does he? 

* * *

 

Sherlock doesn't hang around for John after school on Friday. 

He makes up an excuse about having plans and needing to dash off. He'll make up for it by watching a Bond movie over the weekend, he promises. John seems happy enough with it - said he'd like walking to enjoy the rare British sunshine instead. 

Sherlock sits in his car for almost half an hour before he plucks up the courage to drive to his destination. 

It would've been he and Victor's one-year anniversary. 

He drives to the old abandoned hunting cabin, down near the lake. They used to meet here to rendezvous in secret - when neither one's house was empty and they couldn't bare to be apart for any longer. It's become overrun by moss and weeds and it's bitterly cold even inside in the winter. That never mattered to them. They had plenty of ways to keep each other warm. 

Sherlock remembers the first time they came here. 

_Vic directs the route - 'take the next left' 'keep going for five minutes then hang a right' - and Sherlock jokes that he sounded like a bloody satnav. He's confused when Vic has him pull up in an empty, wooded area not far from the lake._

_"Bit cold to be romantic, love, don't you think?" he quips, and Vic shoves him lightly._

_"Not_ here  _you prick," he says. "We've gotta walk a little ways along here. Come on."_

_And then Vic takes his hand and guides him along the lake's edge, excited, like a child leading the way to Fairyland. Eventually, they come across a small clearing in the trees, invisible except from right at the water's edge. In the middle of the clearing is an old shack, really not much more than a shed, which is in a state of disrepair. The roof tiles are more soft yellowy moss than slate and the windows are thick with dust on the inside. Sherlock raises his eyebrows, no less confused._

_"Oh, I_ see _," he says. "This is where you oh so romantically murder me and dump my body in the lake. Charming, dear. You really shouldn't have."_

_"Would you shut up, you sarcastic git," Vic says, but he's grinning. "This place belonged to my Uncle Jack - the one who died last year. Got passed on to my dad, but he's got no use for it. Nobody does - it's just been sitting here since Jack canned it. I nicked the key from my old man, thought maybe, on days when we can't meet up anywhere else..."_

_Sherlock is quiet for a while, contemplating it. Then he smiles and turns to Vic._

_"You're bloody brilliant," and he steps forwards to kiss him._

Sherlock almost isn't surprised to hear the door creak open behind him, while he stands, dragging on a joint, looking out over the lake from the windows at the back of the shack. He doesn't turn round, doesn't even acknowledge Vic's presence. Vic stops short in the middle of the room, unsure of what to do. 

"Great minds think alike, eh?" he says, eventually. 

"Apparently," is Sherlock's only response. 

"You want some whiskey? Didn't bring any glasses, but then again I never remember you having an aversion to swigging from the bottle," Vic offers. 

"Why did you come here?" he asks, rather than answering the question. 

"Same reason you did, I suppose," Vic says. They're both silent for several long moments. Then Vic sighs heavily. "Look, Shez, I'm-" 

"Don't," Sherlock cuts him off, and he can't stop the way his voice catches in his throat. "Don't you fucking  _dare_ tell me that you're sorry. You don't get to do that to me." 

Victor falls silent again, and Sherlock finally tuns to face him. 

He looks angelic in the dwindling sunlight. His tanned skin takes on a golden glow that is almost otherworldly, and his hair gleams like polished ebony. And his eyes. Oh, those eyes. They were the first thing Sherlock fell for, those big, doe eyes, so dark you almost can't tell iris from pupil. But they're warm with it too - he's only seventeen, and already he has permanent crinkles from smiling so many times. Cheery, bubbly, happy Vic. Everybody's mate. Always smiling. Except he isn't smiling now. Now he's watching Sherlock with an achingly pretty expression of frightened earnest. 

Victor is gorgeous, and Sherlock hates him all the more for it. 

"Did you want the whiskey?" Vic offers the open bottle to Sherlock, who closes the gap between them and takes a long hard swig. He drops the bottle and it breaks, shards of glass and amber liquid splashing around their feet. Vic barely has time to let out a small noise of surprise before Sherlock has grabbed his shirt collar, backed him against the wall and kissed him - no chasteness or gentleness to it. It's all raw, carnal, animal passion; a violent storm of lust and anger. 

"You're a bastard," Sherlock growls between kisses. "You're a bastard and I fucking hate you." 

"I know," Vic's hands clutch desperately at the back of Sherlock's shirt - evidently the suddenness has thrown him off balance, and he appears to be struggling to stand unaided. "I deserve it. My god you're fucking  _beautiful._ " 

Sherlock doesn't say anything in response - he's in no mood for exchanging pleasantries. Instead he fumbles roughly with the fastening of Vic's trousers. Victor has clearly had the same idea - he's clawing at Sherlock's chest with such vigour that he quite literally tears some of his shirt buttons away. 

"Fuck, Shez," it's more a strangled moan than an actual statement, as both of them are down to their boxers. 

Sherlock says nothing. Instead, he just places his hands on Victor's shoulders, and pushes him down onto his knees. 

* * *

 

Sherlock lights a cigarette when they're done, offers it to Vic, just like he used to in the old days. 

Vic accepts it, lets it dangle between his lips as he finds his jeans and wriggles back into them, breathless. 

"That was..." he begins. "Wow." He passes the cig back to Sherlock. "I've missed you, these past few months." 

"Don't do this, Vic," Sherlock closes his eyes and shakes his head. "Please don't do this to me. I'm trying to move on. Please don't make me fall for you again." 

That silence stretches out between them again. Vic clears his throat. 

"I know you don't want to hear it Shez, and I know it doesn't make anything better," he says, quietly. "But I'm sorry. I really am." 

Sherlock swallows hard and then opens his eyes. 

"I know you are," he says. He passes the cig over, redresses quickly and begins to leave without saying goodbye. He's reached the door before Vic says anything else. 

"And for the record, Shez. I love you, too," he calls. Sherlock pauses for a split second, and then continues on his way, thinking one thing only as he heads back to his car. 

_Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck._


End file.
